And seek the haunts of men to shun
Amongst the braes of Ballahun.

The virgin blush of lovely youth,
The angel smile of artless truth,
This breast illum'd with heavenly joy,
Which lyart time can ne'er destroy:
O Julia dear!-the parting look,
The sad farewell we sorrowing took,
Still haunt me as I stray alone
Among the braes of Ballahun.

SAY, SWEET CAROL!

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Say, sweet carol! who are they
Who cheerly greet the rising day!
Little birds in leafy bower;
Swallows twitt'ring on the tower;
Larks upon the light air borne;
Hunters rous'd with shrilly horn;
The woodman whistling on his way;
The new-wak'd child at early play,
Who barefoot prints the dewy green,
Winking to the sunny sheen;

And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair,
And blithely doth her daily task prepare.

Say, sweet carol? who are they
Who welcome in the evening gray?
The housewife trim, and merry lout,
Who sit the blazing fire about;
The sage a conning o'er his book;
The tired wight in rushy nook,
Who, half asleep, but faintly hears
The gossip's tale hum in his ears;
The loosen'd steed in grassy stall;
The hunters feasting in the hall;

But most of all the maid of cheerful soul
Who fills her peaceful warrior's flowing bowl.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

Our bugles sung truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the centinel stars set the watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die;
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And twice ere the cock crew I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far had I roam'd on a desolate track,

Till nature and sunshine disclos'd the sweet way

To the house of my fathers, that welcom'd me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, travell❜d so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young: I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And well knew the strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledg'd we the wine cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heartStay, stay with us, rest-thou art weary and worn! 'And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THE DOWNFAL OF DALZELL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

The wind is cold, the snow falls fast,

The night is dark and late,
As I lift aloud my voice and cry

By the oppressor's gate.
There is a voice in every hill,

A tongue in every stone;

The greenwood sings a song of joy,
Since thou art dead and gone;

A poet's voice is in each mouth,
And songs of triumph swell,

Glad songs, that tell the gladsome earth
The downfal of Dalzell.

As I raised up my voice to sing
I heard the green earth say,
Sweet am I now to beast and bird,
Since thou art past away;
I hear no more the battle shout,
The martyrs' dying moans;
My cottages and cities sing

From their foundation stones;

The carbine and the culverin's mute-
The death-shot and the yell
Are turn'd into a hymn of joy,
For thy downfal, Dalzell.

I've trod thy banner in the dust,
And caused the raven call
From thy bride-chamber, to the owl
Hatch'd on thy castle wall;

I've made thy minstrels' music dumb,

And silent now to fame

Art thou, save when the orphan casts

His curses on thy name.

Now thou may'st say to good men's prayers A long and last farewell :

There's hope for every sin save thine— Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!

The grim pit opes for thee her gates,
Where punish'd spirits wail,

And ghastly death throws wide her door,
And hails thee with All hail!

Deep from the grave there comes a voice,
A voice with hollow tones,

Such as a spirit's tongue would have
That spoke through hollow bones :-
Arise, ye martyr'd men, and shout
From earth to howling hell;
He comes, the persecutor comes !
All hail to thee, Dalzell!

O'er an old battle-field there rush'd
A wind, and with a moan
The sever'd limbs all rustling rose,

Even fellow-bone to bone.

Lo! there he goes, I heard them cry,
Like babe in swathing band,

Who shook the temples of the Lord,
And pass'd them 'neath his brand!
Curs'd be the spot where he was born,
There let the adders dwell,

And from his father's hearth-stone hiss:

All hail to thee, Dalzell!

I saw thee growing like a tree

Thy green head touch'd the sky--